Elders and Betters (20 page)

“Oh, I expect he was; I expect he is,” said Jenney, turning to the window, as if ready with welcome and relief.

“Who told you?” said Esmond to his sister, appearing still to read.

“The house breathed of it. The blinds were down for one thing. That was a shock when we grasped it. I missed it at first, and Father had to tell me. It was Aunt Jessica who said the actual word.”

“Oh, where is Reuben?” said Jenney, picturing the boy alone amongst these influences.

“He went into the garden with the children. He seemed quite himself,” said Anna. “The loss will not touch him very nearly.”

“What a good thing you were not alone!” said Jenney, recalled to Anna's claims. “I am thankful that your father was with you.”

“Yes, I was glad of manly support. And Terence and Uncle Thomas were kind. I think they realised that I was rather hit by the business.”

“Did you come home alone?” said Claribel.

“Yes, I purposely drew a veil over the moment of my going. They would have had to offer me an escort, and there was enough claim on the house.”

“What was the trouble that brought the climax for Aunt Sukey?” said Esmond, putting the marker in his book where it had been on Anna's entrance.

“Oh, just the question of general indifference and lack
of sympathy. I always thought she had reason on her side there. I never pretended I did not.”

“I wondered at that,” said Bernard. “I saw things with the eyes of the family, when I was with them; and with Aunt Sukey's, when I was with her. It is the first case I have met of anyone's doing anything else.”

“Well, it was a dreary business, steering a solitary course towards the grave. It wasn't a case for putting her on a level with everyone else, and strictly keeping her there. Anyhow I didn't see it as such.”

“It wasn't, was it?” said Jenney. “Poor woman, I am sure it was not. And she was a person who had been so much.”

“How did she seem when you saw her?” said Bernard.

“As usual, except that she was in rather a bitter mood. She had been burning papers and otherwise wearing herself out. She asked me to read her to sleep; and though I never fancy that office, I performed it, as it was required of me; and I am glad now.”

“There is your father coming up the drive,” said Jenney. “I wonder what he will have to tell us.”

“I hope his object will be our information,” said Bernard.

“That does not appear to be the case,” said Esmond, as Benjamin went into his study and shut the door.

“Oh, I will go and get him something,” said Jenney, starting to her feet.

“I had better go and do something of the sort for myself,” said Anna, rising rather heavily from her chair.

“Go and lie down, and I will bring it to you,” said Jenney. “You cannot expect to be yourself to-day.”

“Does it seem odd that Anna should have the same feelings as other people?” said Esmond to his brother.

Claribel sat up and looked with a smile from one to the other.

“Perhaps it does, that she should have deeper ones,” said Bernard.

“You began by being drawn to Aunt Sukey yourself.”

“Yes, but she did not give me enough ground for continuing. She simply turned to Anna.”

“Not a very frequent choice from this family,” said Claribel, in a tentative tone.

“I find myself admiring my sister for sorrowing over Aunt Sukey's death,” said Bernard. “A feeling heart beats under her rough exterior.”

“That sort of surface seems to be used to cover such things,” said Esmond, rising and slouching to the door. “And it is hard to see any other purpose for it.”

Claribel laughed and looked at Bernard, but as he lay down on the sofa with a book, followed Esmond from the room.

Presently Cook and Ethel entered, having realised in some way not given to others, that Bernard was alone. They carried a table between them, and having set it in place, appeared to be occupied in adjusting it.

“It has been away for repair,” said Ethel, seeming to address the world at large.

“Have you heard of our trouble?” said Bernard.

“We knew that Miss Donne had passed away, sir. The news reached us before Miss Anna came home.”

“And you did not tell us?”

“There seemed to be no occasion, sir. Bad news travels fast enough.”

“It is only fair to it for you to say so,” said Bernard.

“She was a great sufferer,” said Ethel, after a pause.

“As will be seen now,” said Cook.

“I think it always was,” said Bernard.

“That was for them that knew, to say,” said Ethel.

“And from what we can hear, she did so,” said Cook, seeming to rely on her low tones, to go almost beyond the bound.

“Tell me what you have heard,” said Bernard. Cook and Ethel laid hold of the table and slightly altered its place.

“Have you heard disquieting reports?”

“It was definite, sir,” said Ethel.

“Well, then you can repeat it word for word. Have you always heard such things? Or only lately?”

“Since the death, sir.”

“But that was this morning. And not many people come to this house from theirs.”

“Those that have, have spoken,” said Cook.

“So I see. And I wish to hear what they said.”

“The things that are known too late, cannot be remedied,” said Ethel.

“But they can be described. And I make it clear that they must be.”

“Things sound worse in the telling, sir.”

“Well, that makes it more worth while.”

“It is the story of misunderstanding, sir,” said Ethel, turning away, as if this should satisfy her questioner.

“I shall not ask many more times.”

Cook and Ethel drew nearer at this threat.

“Her warnings were neglected, sir, and her premonitions of her end not heeded,” said Ethel, in a deeper tone.

“But she had had the forebodings for years. People could not spend their lives in thinking about them.”

“It was the least they could do,” said Cook.

“Well, that is always too much for people,” said Bernard.

“The poorest in the land would have done it,” said Ethel.

“So I have always heard,” said Bernard. “Is it really true?” Cook and Ethel glanced at each other.

“We have not had opportunities of judging,” said Ethel.

“Not close ones,” said Cook.

“I should really like to know,” said Bernard.

But his companions could not help him, and a pause ensued.

“And then to die alone!” said Cook. “Without the sound of a voice or a word.”

“But it was a great thing to die in her sleep. You would not wish your death to be a social function.”

“There are occasions for the touch of the human hand,” said Ethel.

“Passing alone!” said Cook.

“We must all do that,” said Bernard.

Cook and Ethel looked at him in surprise, this not being their personal intention.

“They may atone at the funeral,” said Cook.

“It is not too late,” said Ethel.

“It sounds as if you thought it was,” said Bernard.

“I have heard that the simplest arrangements are being made,” said Ethel, in an empty tone.

“Well, have you nothing definite to tell me?”

“It is no good to dwell on it, sir.”

“It really does not seem to be.”

“If thoughts and feelings can do anything, the poor lady has them,” said Ethel. “We have always said a word of her from time to time.”

“It must be a comfort to have done what you can.”

“And Miss Anna has nothing to reproach herself with,” said Ethel, including another in the category.

“Nor the master, poor gentleman!” said Cook.

“I liked and admired Miss Donne very much, myself,” said Bernard.

“I always say there are different ways of doing everything,” said Ethel, in a cordial tone.

There was a pause.

“That table will never be the same again,” said Ethel, giving the table a push, as if to fulfil some purpose for it.

Cook laid her hand on it and looked underneath, and Bernard resumed his book, as his part in breaking up the scene.

As Cook and Ethel reached the kitchen, Jenney ran up to them and took the door from their hands.

“You have got the table into place then?”

“Yes,” said Ethel. “It will never be the same again.”

“That is true of many things,” said Cook.

“Who is in the drawing-room?” said Jenney.

“Mr. Bernard by himself,” said Ethel, with a sigh as for solitude under the circumstances.

“The days get shorter, don't they?” said Jenney.

“And this is a dark room. I always say it has a kind of oppression. I filled the kettle from the hot tap, Cook.”

Cook, informed that the water would soon boil, moved to the stove and resumed her hold on life.

“Poor Miss Donne will never take a cup of tea again,” said Ethel as she sat down.

“That is what it means; death,” said Cook.

“Have you heard anything about it?” said Jenney, as if vaguely struck by this possibility.

“People have spoken,” said Ethel, holding some tea in her spoon and resting her eyes on it. “Words pass from mouth to mouth. It is the only way you can become conversant with things.”

Jenney was far from disputing this, and Ethel and Cook proceeded to assist her in the matter, so that she left them in half-an-hour with a satisfied, if serious face.

She entered the drawing-room at the same moment as Benjamin, who had come from his study to join his family. He stood in the doorway with his eyes resting on their faces.

“I see that your hour is over. I am glad it has been a short one. Mine must be longer, in payment for the years behind. I do not expect you to share it.”

“Come and sit down and forget it for the time, Father,” said Anna, pulling out a chair. “I have not found it so much of a day myself. It is something that it is over. We can't live it again.”

“There are others to follow,” said Benjamin, remaining where he was. “And there is something that I ought to tell you, before we add this one to the past. It may not seem to be much of a thing, but its meaning will grow. You know that your aunt had money of her own, or you would have known, if you had thought about it. It would not normally make any difference to you.”

“It would not, I suppose,” said Anna. “If it would, we
might think about it soon enough. People do seem to think about those things. I daresay we are happy in having our feelings uncomplicated by them. I wonder if the other family is as fortunate.”

“Someone must face the disadvantage of inheritance,'' said Esmond. “It sounds as if Aunt Sukey had imposed a share of it on us.”

“She has left her money to Anna,” said Benjamin, and took the chair that his daughter had set for him.

There was a silence.

“Well, what a rich and rare piece of news!” said Claribel, almost with a scream in her voice. “Those seem to be the only words. And will the disposition take effect? Or will it have to be put aside in favour of the other family?”

“She was supposed to have left the money to Jessica,” said Benjamin; “partly in recognition of her service to her, and partly in view of her means being smaller than mine. But it seems that she changed her mind.”

“Good heavens!” said Anna. “What a thing to have to face! Well, it shows that my efforts gave satisfaction; that is one thing. It is rather a good thing to think. I confess I do rather like it.”

“How much is it?” said Esmond, addressing his father before he thought.

“Some hundreds a year,” said Benjamin. “It had accumulated with time. Your aunt did not spend her income in her later years. She hardly had the opportunity. But it helped her sister's household to have what she gave.”

“You would not have thought that she made any great contribution, from their attitude towards her,” said Anna.

“I would hardly say that,” said her father. “I can think of no home that would have done better. I cannot feel that she would have been as well off with us.”

“She would have died of displeasure at a much earlier date,” said Bernard. “That appears to be what she has done.”

“I wonder how soon Father will do it,” muttered
Esmond. “The disease seems to be mortal and to run in the family.”

“Oh, I don't think she would,” said Jenney, in a tone of compunction. “We should have done what we could, and I am sure she would have been satisfied.”

“And it would have been almost better than nearly dying of it hundreds of times, and then doing so at last,” said Anna.

“It seems that we ought to have had the charge of her, if one of us is taking the reward,” said Claribel. “It must seem to the Calderons money easily earned.”

“It was not earned at all,” said Anna. “Nothing was done to earn it. Aunt Sukey can hardly have thought so. She must have done what she did, for other reasons.”

“From motives of affection?” said Esmond.

“Something like that, or because of some feeling of her own.”

“Well, I never heard anything like it,” said Jenney, as if the truth had just come home to her.

“What have you to say, Bernard?” said Benjamin, his tone revealing that other people's words had not escaped him.

“Well, I was feeling that I had been almost as nice to Aunt Sukey as Anna, perhaps quite as nice, considering the standard of a man. I dont think I mean that I ought to have had the money; I am almost sure that I don't. But I find it difficult to rejoice in others' joy; I never quite see the reason for doing it. And I have never seen it done, so that anyone would notice. People could not have been rejoicing very much.”

“You know your Aunt Jessica,” said Benjamin.

“Well, if she is rejoicing at the moment,” said Claribel, “she proves herself indeed.”